


Let's put the "iron" in "irony"

by gebieterin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Homestuck Kink Meme, Humanstuck, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 14:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16199513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gebieterin/pseuds/gebieterin
Summary: You are Bro Strider. THE Bro. The Coolness gracing earth with the existence of this fine piece of man-meat.Which kinda is part of the problem. Or became part of the problem. A classical egg/chicken-kind of situation. Because fate seems to be a woman and, as you have learned recently, a volatile one.A less refined gentleman might think of her as a Bitch of Epic Proportions, and boy, are you a less refined gentleman currently.





	1. Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> Once there was a kink meme many years ago (wow. so many, many years ago) for which I wrote some snippets. Recent re-obsession with the Homestuck fandom made me remember these and want to continue. Please throw things at me you would like to see here (so I can twist them ];->)
> 
> The original prompt was: 
> 
>  
> 
> _"Maybe Bro's puppet porn website loses popularity, or he falls out with the manager of the club he DJs at or something idk, but either way Bro becomes strapped for cash and he can't pay rent, let alone get enough money to feed himself and Dave so he resorts to selling his best asset - his hot bod. Obviously he doesn't want Dave to know about their financial predicament and how he's getting money to put microwave meals on the table but with the type of clientele that Bro attracts it's getting harder and harder to cover the bruises he brings home._
> 
>  
> 
> _TOO LAME DON'T READ: (did you see what I did there, it was good wasn't it) Bro ends up having to perform sexual acts with unsavory men and whilst blowjobs in toilet stalls are one thing, coming home in the early hours of the morning with a black eye and a suspicious waddle is a whole different level of desperate."_

You are Bro Strider. THE Bro. The coolness gracing earth with the existence of this fine piece of man-meat. Which kinda is part of the problem. Or became part of the problem. A classical egg/chicken-kind of situation. Because fate seems to be a woman and, as you have learned recently, a volatile one. A less refined gentleman might think of her as a Bitch of Epic Proportions, and boy, are you a less refined gentleman currently.

At least measured by the string of curses currently being hissed through clenched teeth while you try you not to vomit in the small sink in that less than sanitary bathroom of the club you once loved. 

Hell, you had owned that club, at least while putting records on these turntables and slinging around sick beats like a happy primate might fling around feces. The masses had worshipped you like the Dark Prince of Beats you were, ready to deliver prayer through their dancing bodies and to even sacrifce their less than virgin bodies on the altar of lust at your every whim (at least enough of them to make it worth your while, even apart from the payment). 

Ah yes, the matter of payment somehow relates to these bodily sacrifices, because after witnessing your masterful performance (both behind the turntables and later in an area you would have thought more secluded), the manager of your favourite club decided he, too, wanted to partake. Bro Strider has always been generous when in the right mood, so in the beginning you did not even feel disadvantaged, because the fucker had had a way of charming his way into your pants.  
But Bro Strider is not one for commitment, as much as Bro Strider will not jump at a mere snap of some fucker's fingers. The fallout had been as ugly as it had been inevitable, but you thought nothing of it. At first. As much as you were livid under all your cool that this favourite club of yours would no longer book you, you still thought it their loss and were more than ready to move on. 

However, word, even if twisted and peppered with lies, had a way to be spread around. While at first you only had a lewd smile in return to some lewd comments and did not even lose your pokerface when one especially despicable cretin had the nerve to outright demand you get down on your knees to pleasure him if you would ever want to play in his club... it stung. And it began to cling to your reputation. To the point that gigs came less and less regular, and the clubs you were playing at got more and more dingy. Your deeply ingrained sense of irony could not avoid to marvel at this reverse evolution your career was taking, but when your little brother, the adorkable coolkid whose hero worship for you had always triggered some ironic mother instinct in your heart, was first reported from school to bully other kids for their lunch money, you knew that something had to be done. You knew he was not really an aggressive child, but it was your fault for not giving him any lunch money, money you just plain did not have currently, but sold the idea to him as preparation for survival in the hostile world. Even though by some miracle you still held custody for little Dave, things like these could bring Child Protective Service to your door like bloodhounds on a hot trail faster than the hunted fox could seek shelter in a burrow.

And when it became clear after some time that you were not ideally cut out for the regular job market and one night some stranger, rightfully fascinated enough with your nonchalant demeanor (and maybe more with your black leather biker gloves) to offer money for a deed that would not take much effort from your side, the lies that had so severely damaged your reputation as a DJ became reality for the first time. You did not really appreciate the irony of that after throwing away your gloves.

However, a sick feeling of premonition told you that with money that easily earned, it would not be the last time.


	2. Solicitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short

If it has been just for you, resorting to this sort of 'job' would have been out of questions (apart from maybe getting employed as sex-slave to some bored gorgeous trophy wife). You would have gotten by. But your little bro had looked so relieved when you started handing him lunch money again, or small amounts for school supplies etc. You chided him amicably for losing his pokerface, ruffled his hair and made a solemn vow to yourself that he would never find out that you did NOT, infact, deliver pizzas or stock up shelves in the supermarket, or any other odd job you could think of whenever he worked up enough courage to actually ask you. You did, however, refrain from ever again jokingly referring to his soon upcoming thirteenth birthday as the day you would auction him off online to the highest bidder.

However, you current approach to this 'job situation' proved problematic (apart from the self-evident repulsion you felt) because to be honest you had no idea how approach this job other than roaming dark alleyways, which you did not feel entirely comfortable with (as if there was anything to feel comfortable about). You were still undecided whether or not to further dare 'working' in the clubs you knew, where, reversely, people would recognize you. 

Tonight had been a exception, a rare case of beginner's luck when one of your few acquaintances had invited you to go out, ironically to the very club that began your downfall. Hanging around near the restrooms for as long as you dared leave may seem risky, but then again, where to hide better than in plain sight.

Still, it cost you a terrible effort. First, to willingly recognize the signs of soliciting given out by prospectives. Then, to react accordingly (just a brief nod, and a glance withering enough to make them take their hands off you back and try to steer you), if they were still interested, follow at an unsuspicious distance.  
The negotiating, when you had no idea about the current market prices (you made a mental note to do your research). Hiding the horror when this prospective would not be content with a quick handjob. Fighting the urge to vomit, because there is nothing ironic about the difference of certain acts performed on a lover or an impatient stranger.

You deliberately do not wait until he has left the restrooms to rinse your mouth over the sinks. At least you are still polite, or maybe just careful enough to hold off the hissed cursing until you are sure that there is nobody near enough to hear you.


End file.
